


hell if i know if heaven exists (but this will do just fine)

by likebrightness



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, F/F, First Kiss, Making Out, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 18:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1314145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likebrightness/pseuds/likebrightness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> <em>She ends up sharing a taxi with Rosa.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	hell if i know if heaven exists (but this will do just fine)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle. Prompts: leather, ponytail, shots, kiss, taxi, eyeliner

-

  
They catch the Fish Hook Strangler. There’s a lot of evidence, but they still want a confession. Boyle was the one who officially made the collar, even though it was more of a team effort, really, so he questions him first. No one is surprised when that yields nothing. Peralta can’t get him to confess either, not even close. Then it’s Amy’s turn. And Amy? Amy gets him to. No one ever thinks she’s good at interrogation but she walks out of there with a signed confession. Peralta looks so dismayed and Holt looks so proud and even Rosa looks impressed (at least, Amy thinks she does; she’s never quite sure what Rosa is thinking at any given time.) 

They go to drinks to celebrate. Jake’s not even a sore loser (which is kind of disappointing, honestly), buys her a couple of vodka crans. She really normally doesn’t drink that much but she got the  _Fish Hook Strangler_  to confess. (And okay, he didn’t actually like,  _strangle_  a person, but there was a dog, which is  _so_  not okay, and he stole a  _bunch_  of stuff—it’s totally a big deal that she got him to confess.) Plus, it’s the weekend, no work tomorrow, and so maybe she gets a little drunk.

Maybe she gets a lot drunk.

-

Sometime after the vodka cranberries (three, she thinks it was, or maybe four, she’s not 100% sure), she finds Rosa at the bar with a shot in front of her.

“Ohmigosh, shots, yes, I want to, please.”

Rosa raises an eyebrow at her. “You sure that’s a good idea, Santiago?”

“Duh,” Amy says. “I’m, like, awesome at shots.”

Diaz doesn’t push it, just motions to the bartender for another.

Amy looks at the skin of Rosa’s neck, considers suggesting body shots.

-

She ends up sharing a taxi with Rosa. They must live near each other, she thinks, though she has no idea where Rosa lives. She wonders if the captain even knows.

She’s in the middle of the bench seat, instead of by the window like she probably should be. But Rosa’s right there, next to her, and her leather jacket is soft under Amy’s fingers. Amy doesn’t know how her hand got on Diaz’s arm (and not even the one closest to her, the one closer to the door, so she’s kind of reaching around Diaz, kind of hugging her, kind of sitting sideways in her seat, chest, stomach, thighs, all the way to ankles pressed up against Rosa’s side), but the leather is soft and maybe this close to Rosa’s face she can figure out how she does her eyeliner, because her eyes are always so gorgeous, pretty but still super intimidating, that would probably help Amy in interrogations—not that she necessarily needs it, given that she can get guys to confess even when Peralta can’t.

“How do you make your eyes so pretty?” she asks. “I mean, not like your eyes your eyes, they probably just came that way, but like your eye make up your eyes. They’re so pretty but also totally badass and I need to learn how to make mine like that.”

Diaz just looks at her. Her arm is around her, but it might just be because Amy’s too close for her arm to be anywhere else.

“Seriously, I need to learn. I need to be intimidating. It’ll help in interrogations and stuff and—”

“No,” Rosa says. “It won’t.”

Amy looks at her mouth. Her lipstick is nice, too. “But you’re totally awesome with suspects. I bet you could’ve gotten the Fish Hook Strangler to confess.”

“Probably,” she says. “But my way works for me. Your way is what works for you.”

“My way?”

Rosa rolls her eyes. Amy clenches the coat in her fist and shakes it a little.

“Tell me.”

Rosa sighs heavily, but she tells her. “You’re sweet,” she says. “Perps like that. But if they try to take advantage of it, you get all badass on them.”

Amy can tell her face is doing that maniacal smile that makes it obvious she’s over-invested in what people think of her, but she can’t help it.

“You think I’m badass?” Coming from Rosa Diaz, it’s like, the best compliment ever.

“Shut up, Santiago.”

Amy grabs Rosa’s face with one hand, the other still clutching her jacket, and forces her to look at her. “Seriously. You do?”

Rosa doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t look away. Her eyes really are pretty—not just her eye make up her eyes, but her eyes her eyes. They’re a dark brown that Amy would describe as chocolate if she weren’t inherently against describing someone’s body in terms of food. (It’s just that it’s only really a thing that happens to women of color. The most white girls get is milk white skin, but more often it’s porcelain. Then there’s chocolatecoffeecinnamon skin and almond eyes, like these women were made to eat (—which isn’t to say she’d exactly  _mind_  tasting Rosa or anything, but that’s neither here nor there).)

Or maybe—maybe it is here, or there, or something, because Rosa called her badass and now she’s just looking at her and she doesn’t look pissed off, or even mildly annoyed, not by the fact that Amy is clinging to her in the backseat of a taxi with no idea where they are going, not by anything. And Amy’s drunk, so she figures she can get away with pressing against her a little harder, tilting her face a little closer. Rosa’s lips quirk up into a smirk and that’s it.

Amy tries really hard to make sure the kiss isn’t sloppy. She does  _not_  want Rosa to think she’s a sloppy kisser, even if she’s drunk. Rosa is—decidedly not a sloppy kisser. Rosa is a good kisser, a great kisser. She is just kind of letting Amy have her way, gentle when she wants, open mouth and ( _ohgod_ ) tongue when she wants. It’s easy, and nice, so much so that it takes Amy a minute to realize Rosa is actually kissing her back. Maybe she could’ve tried this while sober, maybe she should’ve.

She’s holding back, Amy can tell, because there’s no way Diaz normally lets whomever she’s kissing be this much in charge. As long as she is, though, Amy’s taking advantage of it. She swings a leg over Rosa’s lap.

Rosa actually laughs into the kiss.

Amy pulls away, ready to be affronted, but Rosa’s grinning a little.

“This is what I mean,” she says. “Who would’ve expected sweet little Amy Santiago to straddle a girl in the back of a taxi?”

“Shut up, Diaz.”

Rosa’s laughing again, but she’s kissing harder, so Amy still thinks she’s won.

She definitely has, because Rosa is an even better kisser when she’s not complacent. It simultaneously makes Amy sleepy and so wound up she feels like she’s vibrating. She’s so comfortable she can imagine not moving for hours; but she’s also rolling her hips because Rosa’s mouth has her too turned on to sit still. Rosa threads her fingers through Amy’s ponytail, makes a complete mess of it. Amy whines. She wonders if it counts as having sex in the back of a cab if she comes without Rosa even getting under her clothes. She thinks she might, even though there’s not much room for her to move.

Rosa shifts her mouth from Amy’s lips to under her jaw, all lips and tongue and frankly Amy’s surprised she’s not using her teeth. She’s disappointed she’s not using her teeth. She grinds down against her and whines again. Rosa doesn’t seem to get the message. It’s not like her lips and tongue aren’t doing the job—Amy feels like her insides have gone molten—it’s just that she wants more, wants that hint of pain, wants to be marked, wants wants wants. She nudges (that’s a nice word for it, makes it sound gentle and calm instead of desperate) her face against Rosa’s, gets her own lips on Rosa’s neck. Then she bites.

Rosa curses, and Amy feels like she’s won the Nobel Prize or a medal from the mayor or something.

She’s close, can’t stop clenching and unclenching her hands, one still on Rosa’s jacket, the other tangled in her curls. She’s definitely going to come soon, which is not really a surprise because this is so  _good_  and this is  _Rosa_ and how could she expect anything else? She wants to make sure Rosa comes too, though, maybe even comes first, and as she’s figuring out how to do that in this limited space, the cabbie honks the horn.

Amy jerks back. They’ve stopped somewhere—oh, it’s Amy’s building, excellent, then if Rosa will just follow her upstairs they can do this right. Except when she tries to get to her wallet to throw money at the cabbie, Diaz stops her.

“I got it, Santiago,” she says. “I’ll pay him when he drops me off at my place.”

Amy blinks.

“Flicker the lights so I know you didn’t collapse on the stairs or anything, okay?”

Diaz says all of this calmly, nonchalantly, as though Amy hadn’t just been grinding against her, as though she weren’t still in her lap. Amy feels like coals, still smoking even after someone doused them with water. The only indication that Rosa feels anything at all is that she shifts a little in her seat.

“What?” is the only word Amy can come up with.

Rosa laughs and lifts her off of her like she weighs nothing. (Amy wonders if she could beat Terry at arm wrestling, wonders how else she could put that strength to good use.)

“I don’t do drunk chicks, Santiago,” she says. “Call me when you’re sober.”

Amy doesn’t want to give Rosa the satisfaction of her anger at being left high and dry, but she’s also pretty angry that she’s being left high and dry. (Or not dry, as the case may be.) She tries to be graceful getting out of the taxi, is pretty sure she ends up more petulant than elegant.

Rosa rolls down the window. Amy ignores her, doesn’t want to deal with whatever snark she’s going to say.

“C’mere,” is what she says.

Amy rolls her eyes but goes. “ _What_?” she snaps, and Rosa leans up and kisses her.

It is not fair that she is this good at kissing. Amy’s supposed to be mad, she  _is_  mad, is trying to be, but she feels like soft serve ice cream on a hot day. She doesn’t understand  _what_  Diaz is doing with her mouth, doesn’t understand how it is possible, doesn’t understand how Rosa even exists.

“Really, Santiago—call me.” 

Amy stumbles up the stairs to her apartment (she does not  _collapse_ , Rosa, but way to be super cocky), flickers the lights, and doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

-


End file.
